Ghost

I guess we pulled up outside the house at around midnight. It was during
that no-man's land, that purgatory between Christmas and New Year and Helen - my
girlfriend at the time - and I were travelling between her family and mine.
We knew it would take more than a day to drive from Glasgow to
London, through the blizzards and the fog that characterised the Christmas holiday of three
years ago, so Helen had arranged with her sister that we would stay in
her student house in Leeds for a night to break up the journey.

By
the time we got to the house, a three-story Victorian leftover from a time
when the city had been affluent, the snow was starting to fall heavily and
was being blown like razor blades against our skin by the sharp, icy wind.

Like the other buildings in this mainly student-occupied area, the house was locked up
and in complete, unwelcoming darkness.

It took Helen a while to get the key to
turn in the door, all the while the snow cutting into our skin. After
she'd done so, and after we'd dragged our stuff in and slammed the door
behind us, we just stood there in the blackness and silence of the hall,
recovering our breath.

The first thing we found was that the power didn't seem
to be switched on. Every switch we tried yielded no light, just three electronic
beeps which seemed to emanate from deep within the darkness. After a while, using
Helen's cigarette lighter to guide us, we found that the beeping noises came from
an electricity meter in what seemed to be, from the dim flickering flame, a
kitchen. The impersonal digital display informed us that there was no credit left on
the top-up card. No charge, so no electricity.

Helen said, "Little bitch." Like her
sister had planned this to happen.

We inched our way up to her sister's
room using the lighter and found a couple of ornamental candles which were scattered
around the room. The dim light they emitted was barely useful but at least
allowed us to undress and find our way across the landing to the bathroom
to brush our teeth.

I found it impossible to stop myself flicking light switches
as I entered and left the rooms and corridors in the house. Force of
habit I guess. Every time I did it those three shrill beeps pierced the
darkness, carried up through two floors from the kitchen deep below. At first Helen
found it funny, then, after a few times, she stopped laughing. By the tenth
or eleventh repetition she was getting a bit pissed off.

We squeezed ourselves into
her sister's cramped bed, hugging each other for warmth. The wind outside howled and
whistled and the snow rattled against the window in spurts like someone was throwing
handfuls of gravel.

Occasionally the roof would creak or the door would rattle within its
frame and Helen laughed that it might be the .

"The ?"

"All these old houses
have a , don't they?"

"I guess."

She drifted off to sleep in my arms. Normally
she'd have a go at me for hugging her and push me away but
tonight she seemed to enjoy my body heat, if not my affection. I lay
next to her with a hard-on, feeling the cold draughts on my back and
listening to the snow against the window, gradually drifting off to sleep.

The next
thing I was aware of was waking up in a panic in the suffocating
blackness. I couldn't work out where I was. I thought I was drowning or
in a coffin. Trapped without air, without light.

But gradually I came to. Realised
that the sounds I could hear weren't surrounding me, choking me, but were the
sounds of the blizzard hammering against the window.

I lay there for a while,
listening to the wind and the snow, trying to shake off the deep sense
of foreboding that my panic had left me with. Wondering why I'd woken up.

The atmosphere in the room, in the house, made the feelings of unease impossible
to shift. The more I lay there, exposed to the rank, suffocating darkness, the
more I became convinced that something was in the house; that some noise from
deep beneath us had awoken me.

Over a few minutes of lying there, I
worked myself up into such a state that I considered waking Helen. Just to
see if she felt it to.

But I anticipated her reaction - the irritation,
the scorn - and dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Besides, I was supposed to
be the "man": the half of the relationship with the balls; the dutiful protector;
the valiant knight. So I reprimanded myself for being childish and turned my back
to her to try and get some sleep.

I lay there for a few
minutes, feeling myself begin to relax.

Then I heard a sound.

Beep beep beep.

Someone
had tried to turn on a light. I was instantly awake. Someone was in
the house.

I listened for more sounds. None came. I wondered if the noise
had been imagined; had been the early part of a dream. But no. They
were too real, too crisp. They'd happened.

I swivelled about, moving my legs out
of the bed and sitting upright. The carpet felt so cold against my feet
that its texture was almost wet. Like dew.

No more sounds came from below.
I wondered again if this was me being over-anxious. "Hyper-sensitive" as Helen often put
it. But everything within me, every ounce of intuition told me that that wasn't
so. Something was in the house. Here, with us.

I got out of bed
and groped around for my watch to check the time. The cold green display
on it read 03:04. Laying it back down on the floor, I crept over
to the door. I opened it as quietly as I could and stood listening
to sounds from below. Sounds from the cloying, almost overpowering, darkness.

There was only
silence.

"Why are you shaking?" taunted a voice from within my brain.

"'’Cause it's
so fucking cold," another voice replied.

That seemed reasonable, perfectly logical.

So that made
me feel a bit less ridiculous.

But then, as I looked out of the
door, down into the thick blackness, the voice said, "What do you think is
down there?"

And I didn't want to reply to that.

I left the door
ajar and stumbled back to the bedside table to light a candle. Reassured slightly
by its dim glow, I went back to the door and looked out. The
corridor and stairs leading downward were basked in the yellow, flickering light. The shadows
leapt around the walls, swaying and flailing like drunken dancers

Nothing stirred from beneath.

I told myself how stupid I was being. Behaving like a little kid.

But
then I heard a thump.

The sound was dim and distant. Like someone throwing
a pillow onto the floor. A soft sound: an explicable sound.

I thought another
student must have returned. Travelling between families like Helen and I. So I called
out, "Hello?"

There was no response.

I walked out of the room and down
the first few stairs.

"Hello...?"

The house was silent.

I started to wonder if
I'd imagined the noise. I'm not given to imagining noises, but maybe, in this
case...

I reached the first landing and looked down, round the bend, at the
walls of the first floor, flickering in the dim light as they disappeared into
the darkness of the corridor.

Nothing stirred.

I had the intense sensation that someone
was here with me. Down there.

I remembered once hearing, or reading somewhere, that s
often make their presence felt by affecting electronic devices like burglar alarms and security
lights. And maybe electricity meters.

It wasn't impossible.

Even Helen – cool, skeptical Helen –
had mentioned s.

I called out again, "Hello? Anyone there?"

Nothing.

But someone was down
there. Every instinct of which I'm capable told me that to be a fact.

I
walked down onto the first floor. I felt slightly vulnerable wearing just my underwear
and wished I'd pulled my jeans. The idea of turning back seemed cowardly, though.

So
I went on regardless.

I called out, down the flickering walls of the corridor
and into the blackness beyond, "Anyone there?" When, again, there was no response, I
added, in sing-song, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Again nothing happened but
I felt a bit better. I think my attempt at joviality raised my spirits
slightly, like this was all part of a jolly jape between my mates and
me; a joke that would soon be revealed as such.

I walked, more confidently
down the stairs towards the ground floor.

I kept calling, "Where are you, ?
I know you're there, ..."

Until I got to the bottom. By then the
absence of any response, the lack of any reassurance from a recently-returned student, started
getting to me. I started feeling tense again. Felt myself freeze up; become as
cold as the air around me.

I walked to the front door, feeling the
irregular drafts from the gusts of the blizzard leaking through the cracks of it
as I approached.

I don't know why, but I reached forwards and pulled on the
handle to see if it was locked. I don't know why I did it
because I was totally expectant, fully confident, that it would be locked; that either
Helen or I would have dropped the latch behind us.

But it wasn't. I
pulled the handle towards me and the door opened inwards, the bottom of it
scraping against the frame with a loud groan. The wind rushed in and the
candle went out.

I closed the door and dropped the latch.

I stood there
for a few seconds wondering what to do.

I wondered if maybe the noise I'd
heard had been the door opening and closing in the wind.

Then something behind
me changed almost imperceptibly and I knew something was in the house with me
and that something had just moved. Perhaps it was the vibrations from it, or
maybe sounds of which we are aware but don't actually hear: whatever, something moved
and I felt it.

I turned around and faced the darkness, without the candle
to help me. The corridor and stairs were weakly illuminated by the neon street
light from outside the front door but its tepid orange glow was of little
assistance.

I called out, still in sing-song, "Mr. ... where are you?"

But by
now my mock-joviality was of little comfort and the silence, which followed it seemed
overwhelmingly bleak.

I said, desperately, "Hello?"

Still there was no sound.

I walked forwards,
intending to find my way back to the stairs, when I saw a dim
but distinct white glow coming from beneath one of the doors down the corridor
on the right. It spread out from the crack underneath the door, diffusing outwards
across the carpet of the hallway.

Seeing the light made me feel more hopeful. Someone
was in the room. Maybe one of Helen's sister's housemates had come back after
all. They'd lit a candle and fallen asleep on their bed...

I walked forwards and
knocked on the door.

There was no sound from within but still the light burned
beneath the door.

I knocked again, more loudly. When the silence continued, my confidence
began to ebb.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Nobody was on
the bed.

Nobody was in the room.

The light came from under a chest of
drawers.

I walked forwards and knelt down to see where it came from. The
beam shone out from a torch that looked like it had rolled under there.

I wondered what was going on when I heard the door behind me slam
shut.

I turned around and my eyes met the stare of a teenager with
a crew cut who'd concealed himself behind the open door. His eyes gleamed in
the dim torchlight, alight with malice.

He said, with a grin, "Good evening."

I
stood up, maintaining eye contact with him.

He took a step towards me and
pulled something out from his pocket. It clicked and a shiny blade snapped outwards.
He spoke softly, "Don't think about trying anything..."

I was still too shocked to
think about trying anything. Still trying to get my head around the fact that
my had acquired flesh and blood.

He went on, "Or Mr. ...? 'Hello Mr. , where are you Mr.
...'" He impersonated my voice in a way that made me sound like a
retarded four-year-old.

Then he just stood glaring at me, leering.

I stood in front of him,
feeling ridiculous in my briefs and t-shirt, trying to stay rational. Remember details about
his appearance, I thought. Leather jacket. Tattoo on his neck. An eagle or something.
Pierced ear. Pierced nose. Jeans. Boots. About 19.

He walked towards me, coming halfway across
the room.

He said, "You're gonna tell me which of your little bumchums in the
house has the best stuff. The new discman, the latest PC, the best hifi.
You're gonna tell me that, aren't you?"

"I... I don't know..."

"No no no no no..."
he half-sang, like he was talking to a child. "That's not the right response,
blond boy. You're gonna do a lot better."

"I don’t know anything about these people..."

He
came right up to me, his face right in front of mine.

He said, with
more an edge to his voice, "I said you're gonna do better." His breath
stunk of alcohol.

I said, "You don't have to do this. I mean…"

I think I
moved my right hand upwards, reaching up to pat his shoulder as a friend
would so I that I could appeal to his better nature. He obviously saw
my movement as an attempt to outwit him and nutted me in the face.

I
fell backwards, my back banging into the edge of the top of the drawers
behind me. Even as I was falling, before I was aware of the pain,
I could feel the warm wetness of my blood pouring out of my nose,
onto my upper lip and down my chin.

He shouted, "Don't fuckin' try anything. I
fuckin' told ya. I don't give a shit what I do to ya..."

The pain
hit me and my knees gave way. I sat in front him, my nose
streaming with blood, my hands around it and my thumbs blocking my nostrils, trying
to stop it.

He said, more gently but equally insidiously, "You're gonna make me cut
ya if you make any more moves like that..."

I tried to tell him that
I wasn't trying to outsmart him but my words were incomprehensible. My jaw didn't
seem to want to work properly and my nose muffled any sounds that I
managed to produce.

He ignored my attempts to talk to him and looked around like
he was searching for something. He grabbed a pair of tights, which were lying
on the floor near the bed. I thought maybe he was going to hand
them to me to stop the blood flow from my nose but he told
me to put my hands behind me. Dazed, I did so, and the blood
began trickling unabated from my nose. It hurt like hell and I wondered if
he'd broken it.

He reached behind me and tied my hands to one of the
legs of the chest of drawers with the tights. As he secured them, I
looked into his eyes, cold and indifferent. I tried not to let mine betray
how scared I was.

He said, "You're gonna sit there, nice and tight, while I
do a little house inspection, aren't ya?"

He obviously understood at least
some of what I said because he stopped leering and glared at me.

"You think
I'm messing about?"

He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans.

"You think this is messing
about?"

He opened his fly wide and, after rummaging around to push the front of
his boxer shorts down, pulled out his erect cock.

It arched upwards in front of
him, about six inches in length.

He looked down at it proudly and then gave
it a few tugs between his thumb and forefinger. The foreskin slid back and
forwards, exposing then hiding the purple, dry head in quick succession.

He grinned. "Searching through
all these student girls' cute little bras and panties... kinda gets a guy hot,
know what I mean? Makes a guy ready for the real thing... someone willing
or unwilling..."

I managed to say, "You're gonna turn a burglary into a rape? Six
months inside into ten years...?"

He laughed and considered what I'd said, nodding slowly. Then
he said, "Who's to say you're gonna be in any state to give a
description? You think I'm just gonna leave you there, like that?"

That hit me hard.
Even though he was laughing and I wasn't sure that he wasn't bluffing, it
hit me hard. The implication was true.

I said, starting to panic at the prospect
of what he was about to do, "But wait... look... look, mate... I've got
money... my dad's got money – "

He turned serious. "I'm not your mate. I
wouldn't be about to fuck your girlfriend if I was your mate..."

The panic set
in. "I can get you some money... I mean a couple of thousand... more,
maybe..."

He pulled his jeans down further and started thrusting his hard curving cock into
the air in front of him. It sliced the air, up and down, like
a sword, and he gasped in a crude impersonation of female orgasm. "Ah... yeah...
fuck me... fuck me... a real man... at last..."

I begged him, "Please..." It was
all I had left.

He turned to leave the room, his jeans halfway down his
thighs, but stopped when he spotted the black Adidas bag he must have brought
with him for his pickings. He knelt down to grab something from inside it.
It was a Sony discman. One of the chrome-plated ones.

He pulled the power cable
out from the back of it and threw the discman back into his bag.

Then
he turned to me, winding the cable around his fist, and grinned. He said,
"Just in case she's not being a hundred percent co-operative. Know what I mean?"

I
guess I just stared at him, unable to speak because I was breathing so
fast.

He kept staring at me and his grin slowly faded into something harder, "If
she doesn't scream, I won't 'urt 'er..."

He got halfway through the door and my
panic overtook me. The horror of this despicable creature laying his hands on Helen
was overwhelming. It erupted inside me, blocking out all rational, sensible thought. I thrashed
around to free myself of his crude bindings and I guess my exertions stretched
them enough for my wrists to slip through them.

The next thing I knew I
was on top of him, propelled across the room by a kind of primitive
life-preserving panic.

His head banged against the frame of the door and I think that
momentarily stunned him. We struggled for a few seconds but his movements were clumsy
and sluggish: just automatic reflexes to protect himself while his brain tried to recover
from the blow it had received. I soon overpowered him and dragged him back
into the room. I pushed him, face down, onto the bed and grabbed at
the power cable, which was still loosely entwined around his hand.

As I tied his
hands to the frame of the bed he started to come around. He began
to struggle in earnest and I only just managed to get the knot tight
enough before he started kicking outwards, landing one of his heavy boots in my
kneecap.

The pain was excruciating.

He shouted, "You little fucking shit! You fucking cunt!" He struggled
to free his hands from the bed frame but the cable was too strong
for him.

He kept kicking outwards, his legs constrained by the fact that his trousers
were halfway down his legs, but trying to reach me nonetheless.

I picked up his
knife that he'd dropped during the scuffle.

I limped around to the end of the
bed where his feet couldn't reach me, my knee pounding like a second heart
from his blow, and placed the knife at the side of his neck, on
the skin of his tattoo.

He went quiet and
looked up at, his eyes burning with hatred and derision. "Like you'd fuckin' dare..."

I
smiled. "I'm training to be a doctor. You think I'm squeamish about cutting skin?"
I pushed the knife harder against his tattoo, so that skin around the end
of the blade turned white. "You want me to give you a demo?"

He didn't
reply. He just stared at me, his expression hardening as he recognized that I
was serious.

I said, "I'm gonna tie up your feet and you're gonna stay still."
I glanced down at his exposed arse, white and hairless in the torchlight. I
thought it would make a very strong subject for a threat.

Trying to sound calm
I said, "If you try to kick me, I'll stab you in the arse.
Do you understand?"

He nodded enthusiastically, his eyes never leaving my face. He was breathing
quickly, as quickly as I was.

I reached for the tights with which he'd tied
me to the drawers and secured his right leg to the leg of the
bed. He made no attempt to struggle.

Then I looked around the room for something
else with which I could tie him up and noticed a dressing gown hanging
on the back of the door. I pulled the cord from it and went
to secure his other leg against the bed-frame. As I did so, as I
knelt down to tie the knot, he tried to kick me in the face.

The
blow caught me in the cheek, knocking me backwards against the desk. The lamp
on it clattered over, making a loud metallic ringing noise like a cheap bell.

He
immediately started struggling, thrashing around on the bed, trying to free himself from my
fastenings.

I got up quickly and threw myself on top of him, my chest against
his back, holding him down to prevent him from getting free. I was pretty
sure my knots would hold, but not completely sure. I didn't know the strength
of the guy.

He tried to buck me off his back but I held on.
I shouted, "Stay still you little bastard."

He spat out, "Fuck you," and bucked his
arse up and down to try and shake me off.

The feel of his arse
rubbing against my cock in the front of my briefs gave me an idea.

I
held him down and rubbed myself against his arse, thrusting my groin against his
round cheeks.

He stopped struggling, wondering what I was doing. I kept working myself against
him and whispered, "You like that? You like the feel of a real man...?"

He
said, more quietly and more slowly, "Fuck... you..."

I kept rubbing my cock up and
down the cleft of his arse. The sensation of being like this, stretched out
on his back and using his arse like a masturbatory aid, really appealed to
me. Despite the pain from my nose and from my kneecap, and despite my
fear and loathing of this guy, I could feel my cock starting to stiffen.

Maybe
he did too, because he said, more urgently, "Get off my fuckin' back you
queer..."

I said, "Getting frightened, mate? Oh sorry, yeah... we're not mates are we? I'd
hardly be preparing to fuck you if we were mates, would I?"

He started bucking
frantically, trying to push me off. I held on, holding his chest with both
arms, and cried out like I was loving it. "Yeah! Yeah! Go for it!
Give it to me!"

He stopped again.

By now I was getting really aroused by humiliating
him like this and my cock was reaching full size. He would undoubtedly be
able to feel it pressing into him. My breathing was getting faster. I was
in charge of this guy: had complete power over him. Sexual power. The knowledge
of that was unexpectedly exciting.

I pulled one arm away from him and used it
to pull down the front of my briefs. My cock sprang out and I
pushed it between his cheeks, the head level with the area of his arsehole.
His arse cleft felt hot and slightly damp.

He said, breathlessly, "You can't do this
to me... cut me if you wanna... you can't do this."

I whispered, pushing my
cock into his crack, feeling his moist hole open slightly against the sensitive tip
of my bell-end, "But you were gonna do this to my girlfriend."

He gasped as
I pushed a little further and a centimetre or so of my cock entered
him. "No... stop... please... that's different... girls like this stuff... they like a guy
doing this..."

I laughed. A genuine laugh. What he'd said was kind of funny.

I whispered,
"You think she'd like a piece of shit like you fucking her? Forcing her?
You honestly think any girl would like that?"

I pushed further into him, looking at
the collar of the back of his leather jacket, at his neck and at
his short brown hair. I felt his anus contract sharply, trying to expel me,
but I pushed in regardless. It made a slight slurping sound.

He heard it and
frantically tried to say something that would stop me. "No – please. What d'ya
want? I got some dope in my bag. Some coke back at my place...
what d'ya want?"

I pushed again, hearing him gasp and feeling him tense up beneath
me with every millimetre of his arse I penetrated. My cock was feeling impossibly
stiff; unfamiliarly large. Throbbing like that of a sixteen year old at his first
strip show.

"I want your arse. I want you to feel me fucking you. That's
what I want..."

I had this guy for myself. He'd broken my nose, maybe my
kneecap. He'd made threats against my girlfriend, implied he was going to kill or
permanently injure us, but now I had him. And I wanted him; I wanted
my prize.

He kept pleading, "No – no – please – no – "

But his
desperation just drove me further into him, egged me on.

When I felt as if
my cock was about half way into his arse, I pulled back a little
and started working up a rhythm, beginning to fuck him for real.

That feeling, the
sensation of my cock starting to slide in and out of him really seemed
to affect him. Maybe what I was doing to him finally hit home. He
started shouting abuse and struggling frantically. The knots were holding tight and his free
leg couldn't reach me, but I was worried that his noise would wake Helen
up so I stretched out on top of him, holding him down.

He stopped moving
but kept swearing at me. Calling me a faggot, a cunt, a bastard.

I grabbed
his body close to me and violently slammed my cock about an inch further
into his arse in one go. His arse made a farting sound and he
gasped. "Jesus..."

While he was catching his breath, reeling from my sudden intrusion, I whispered,
"If you want it gentle, keep quiet. If you want it so rough that
you shit blood, keep shouting..."

He kept breathing heavily. The back of his neck had
become damp with his sweat. After a few seconds he whispered, "Yeah. Okay..."

I started
fucking him again, working up a steady rhythm. My breathing quickened: this felt so
good. His arse felt totally different from a girl's pussy: it gripped my cock
eagerly, squeezing it like a red hot fist. It kept making slurping farting noises
as I pushed myself in and out and that seemed to make it even
better. The baseness of what I was doing, the sordidness of fuckin’ the guy's
arse, really got to me. It felt wet inside and I knew what that
wetness was, but that just added to my excitement.

Maybe he started getting into it;
maybe he realised that his resistance was making it harder on himself. Whatever the
reason, he moved his free leg outwards to open his arse wider to accommodate
me. He even pushed it out towards my cock, trying to open his cheeks
further apart.

That made him fart even more, crude sounding squelches, and the smell from
arse became inescapable. I kept thinking of my cock, stabbing in and out of
his filth, and the idea of that was disgusting but, at the same time,
exhilarating.

He started grunting in the same rhythm as my cock; kept saying, "Jesus", "Fuck",
"Ah" in time with the sounds from his arse.

I pulled away from his back
and, kneeling against the edge of the mattress, pulled his arse upwards so that
he was bending in front of me.

I loved the feelings that were washing over
from having him like that. Kneeling behind his overpowered body, sliding my cock in
and out of his arse. I looked down at my cock in the dim
torchlight, six inches of it pushing in between his pale cheeks, then out, in
then out. It was streaked with strings of his arse slime, making light brown
veins down its thick stem.

The sheer carnality of buggering this guy, tied up in
front of me, the thought that I was invading his unwilling and unprepared arse,
made me pant and grunt, made the sweat pour down my face and back.

I
started slamming myself into him, the smell of his shit becoming even stronger.

His grunting
became louder and I realised that, as I pushed my cock into his arse,
he was pushing his arse backwards to meet it. I looked up at his
face and saw that it was partly turned towards me, bright red and slick
with sweat. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. He too was
panting between his grunts.

I moved backwards and stood on the floor next to the
bed, holding his waist to keep his arse impaled on my cock. Then I
pulled his hips towards me, standing upright behind him, and began frantically driving the
full length, the entire eight inches, of my cock in and out of his
wet anus. The sounds from it were louder, the smell stronger, and the feelings
from it – hot, tight and slippery – overwhelming.

I looked down at his two
white round arse cheeks and the thick shaft of my cock ramming in and
out between them. I realised that my grunts had become almost growls: low angry
sounds from the back of my throat. My face was contorted into a snarl.
I was completely drawn into this, losing the last threads of my self-control. I
would never have sunk so deep into my own pleasure to have shown this
primitive level of abandon with a girl; would never have dared even if I
had.

He kept grunting and panting and I thought I heard him say, "Yeah."

Our movements
became manic: me, behind him, driving my entire middle body towards and away from
him in a frenzy; him bending in front of me, slamming his arse backwards
to meet every thrust of my cock. My balls hung down from the front
of my briefs, and I could feel his swinging back and hitting them with
every thrust we made. Mine felt larger but his hung lower; low enough to
bob back and forwards in his loose scrotum like a pendulum.

I was in control
of him and I loved it. My cock was my weapon; his arse –
no matter how repellent – was its prize. He'd accepted his defeat and given
it to me. I had his body now I had his acceptance.

The stench of
our sex was overpowering: raw and revolting. We both could smell it; we both
knew what it meant. But neither of us could stop panting, breathing it in,
and for me at least it only served to fuel my already intense carnal
pleasure.

I started cumming copiously and my semen spilled out of his hole, stained and
discoloured by his arse. I kept thrusting, revelling in the wet squelching sounds my
cock was making inside of him, and heard him gasping and whimpering.

I looked back
up to his face and saw that his eyes were wide open, staring blankly
ahead of him, and his lips were quivering. He started manically thrusting his hips,
pumping his own semen onto the bed, lost in his own orgasm.

I pulled out
of him and fell backwards across the room, falling into the desk again.

I held
onto it, supporting myself against it, and watched his orgasm subside.

I was besieged by
immediate waves of self-loathing at what I'd just done. I’d raped this guy. I'd
reduced myself to his level. I'd done something -- enjoyed something -- that I
would never have thought myself capable of even contemplating.

And yet I hadn't contemplated it,
hadn't considered it for a second: I'd just gone ahead and done it. Just
unquestioningly followed desires I hadn't known even existed.

I'd come downstairs to find a
and found something infinitely and unimaginably more monstrous already inside me.

I wiped my cock
on my briefs and pulled them up.

Then I knelt down and picked up his
knife.

All the while, he just lay there, maybe experiencing his own inner torments.

I walked
over to him and cut the tights, freeing his right leg. He just lay
there.

Then I unfastened the cable that had secured his hands.

He still just lay there,
his wet, pillaged arse pointing upwards, his face lying sideways, his eyes seeming to
study the pattern on the duvet.

I said, "You're gonna go now."

At first he didn't
move. He just lay there, staring at the duvet.

Then, slowly, he seemed to pull
himself together.

He pulled himself up off the bed and reached down for his boxer
shorts. As he did so, I noticed that his cock had a long string
of cum hanging from it.

Then, making no acknowledgement of my presence, he pulled up
his trousers and fastened his belt. Went over to his sports bag and threw
some of the stuff from it onto the floor.

As he walked out into the
corridor, I picked up the torch and followed him.

He walked to the front door and opened it. Without a word, without even turning to look at me, he stepped outside into the snow and I closed the door behind him.

******

A few weeks later, long after that frantic half hour in which I'd sorted things out as well as I could, cleaned up the blood and scattered the stuff from his bag into likely places around the room, Helen and I were sitting in the warmth of a pub waiting for a couple of friends to meet us.

She made some comment about her sister dumping Ian, her boyfriend.

I was hardly interested. Ian had been around at Helen's house in Glasgow with the rest of us at Christmas and had seemed like a pretty nice guy. A bit gormless, but okay.

She went on to say that a gang of local lads had turned up one night at her sister's house wanting to "have words with" a blond guy in the house. The boyfriend of someone in the house.

That’s when I started listening.

She said that since Ian was the only guy who spent any time around there and who fit that description, it had seemed as if the visitors had been for him. Nothing had actually happened because he wasn't at the house and, besides, one of the girls had phoned the police. The lads had cleared off.

But Helen's sister had got it into her head that Ian was getting into drugs and that there was something going on between him and the lads who'd come round. Unpaid debts and stuff. He'd denied it but they'd had a massive argument about trust and they'd parted ways.

"Pity," I said as casually as I could. "He was a nice guy."

"Nice guy? Jesus, Seb. Sonia was well out of that. God knows what the guy must have been into..."

He was the type of guy who'd maybe smoked a bit of dope, but not much else.

But I said, "Yeah. I guess."

"He was totally wrong for her. I told her that."

They'd made a good couple.

I said, "Yeah. It's for the best."

Neither of us said anything more for a couple of minutes.

Then she added, "She was crying her eyes out."

I didn't say anything. I just took a drink from my pint.

She went on, "She said he was, too. When she dumped him."

Then I felt like shit. And I felt even more like shit for not saying anything. For just sitting there looking at my drink until she started talking about something else.

Comments to: sebastian_wallace@yahoo.co.uk

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